


270 - Saint Patrick's Day and First Times

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, Dad Van, F/M, Fluff, body pos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “Could you write one where the reader has just given birth to their first child and the rest of the lads come to visit and argue about who should get to hold the newborn first but Van just won’t let them go because he’s so in love.” and a fic about all the first times (e.g. first kiss, first date; I accidentally deleted the request word for word, sorry!)  and “…as it’s st Patrick’s day could you maybe do a fic where the reader is Irish? Or just Van and the reader celebrating the day together”Mini request: Reader showing up at a Catfish concert and Van noticing halfway through.





	270 - Saint Patrick's Day and First Times

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my longest yet at 10,450+ words. Wowza. Also, if you're reading this on AO3, welcome!

Van had spent Saint Patrick’s Day in Ireland before. More often than not, he wasn’t home for it, but home was an ever-changing thing. Llandudno. Chester. London. Most of his Paddy days were lost in a blur of fan bought beers and live shows. Somehow though, of all the places Van had been, Ireland was where he had spent the most 17th of Marchs. He’d thought about the coincidence once or twice, smiling to himself and thinking maybe it was because of his Irish roots that were almost forgotten if not for the ginger whiskers that sprouted on his jaw and cheeks every other day.

The tavern was hot. Van could feel his shirt underneath his thick coat sticking to his skin. No point in taking it off though, he thought. He’d be outside in the freezing cold in another minute for another cigarette. He was in Dublin with his father’s extended family. Van hadn’t spent much time with them as a kid, but they’d always been just over the Irish Sea. Sitting on the very end of Llandudno Pier when he should’ve been in school, he wondered what they were all like.

In the Dublin tavern, taking up a quarter of the room but making more than half the noise, he didn’t have to wonder. They were eccentric and rambunctious, musical and proud. Nobody dared go near the old jukebox in the corner of the room. The McCanns were all in town! Acoustic guitars and fiddles were nursed in laps like it was completely normal to bring instruments wherever you went. For them, it was. For Van, it was. He immediately felt at ease around his relatives, as were all the other patrons in the tavern.

Maybe it was the drunken spirit of Saint Patrick’s Day, making everyone more hospitable and more friendly. Maybe it was just the way of the Irish. Maybe it was a McCann thing; they were all so easy to fall in love with. Whatever it was, nobody spoke an ill word of them and their chaos and their sometimes-out-of-tune music. In fact, every soul that found shelter from the horrible weather in the tavern made time to say an extra special prayer; thank you for letting me witness this… them.

Van ducked outside for that smoke. He rounded the corner of the building seeking shelter. Before, he’d snuck into the doorway of the tavern’s kitchen. Small. Warm. Shielded from wind. Another person was already in his spot though. Unworried, Van jumped the step up and joined them in the small space.

You’d been off in a daydream or in a green-tinged haze. Van had to clear his throat before you even noticed him there. Head snapping up to look at him, you smiled. He smiled.

“Got a light?” he asked, despite the hand in his left pocket being wrapped around his trusty Zippo.

As you lit the cigarette that was sitting on his bottom lip, presumably held in place by his teeth, you spoke. “Your family’s the life of the party, hey?”

Van nodded as he inhaled and exhaled, then he looked at you like you didn’t expect an answer.

“I like your accent,” he said.

“This is gonna be hatchet for you then, fella. Ya in luck, it seems. Plenty of souls round here with an accent like me, see,” you replied with a smirk.

“Hadn’t noticed,” Van said with a shrug. His lack of response to your sass surprised you into saying nothing more. You just leaned back against the wall and alternated between watching the weather turn worse and watching Van smoke. “You live here then?” he eventually asked.

“Aye. The Pale, right ‘ere,”

“Must be good craic this time of year,”

“Must be,” you agreed. “Bit jammers with tourists but,”

“Tourists like me?” Van asked.

You shrugged and looked at him carefully. “You seem different. You’re family’s from 'ere. Got sent over the water when you was just a baby or something?”

“Nah. That would be my dad, or granddad… or… I don’t know. But yeah, I’m from over the water,”

“Figured. Accent, see,” you explained.

Van had finished his cigarette. Neither of you were moving. It had begun to snow and Van had to stop himself from pointing out that obvious fact. He sensed that you’d mock him for it, albeit in a way that allowed for him to tease you right back. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. His mouth was barely open, barely forming a sound when you were talking again.

“If we stand here any longer, we’ll be snowed in,” you said, pushing off from the wall and standing on the very edge of the little doorway alcove. Still, Van did not move. You looked over your shoulder at him. “What’s your name?” you asked him, suddenly curious.

“Ryan Evan McCann,” he blurted out quickly, instantly. His cheeks went red just as fast and his eyes moved to gaze at anything but your grinning face. 

“Ryan Evan McCann, huh? Good Irish name, that. I’m Y/N.” You turned back to face him, standing right in front of him. “I got a favour, Ryan Evan McCann. And with it bein’ Paddy’s Day and all, you owe me,”

“Because you’re Irish?” Van asked, amused already.

Nodding, you replied, “Yeah, 'cause I’m Irish. So, see these boots? They’re new, and me bein’ the muppet I am, didn’t bother usin’ the fancy waterproof spray. And I don’t want to get 'em all wet.” A pause in the story to see if he wanted to cut in. Van raised an eyebrow and tried to hold his lips in a straight line. “Might need a piggyback inside.”

Or, the first time you met Van McCann, in a Dublin tavern on Saint Patrick’s Day.

…

Van’s hair was peppered with green metallic confetti and glitter. The girl behind the bar had left green lip prints on his cheek, like she had to almost everyone in the bar. You had one on both. Around his neck were cheap plastic beads and someone had pinned a 'Kiss Me I’m Irish’ badge onto the back of his jacket. Strangers were pulling him into a headlock and kissing his temple all night. You watched with glee.

Van’s family was a planet with its own moons orbiting it. You and your friends were in the same solar system, but down the other end of the bar. A small planet with no moons, until Van. He’d circle his family a couple of times, sing them songs and listen to their magnificent tales that were too big to be true. He’d skip a step, change trajectory, and find you again. All night he drank till all he could see was stars and you, he sang till his throat burned, and he laughed till there was nothing left in him.

It was just past three in the morning when you were sitting at the bar together, both of your heads flat against the sticky wood, looking at each other. You wanted to sleep. The party was not over. Escape, then.

“Ryan Evan McCann? Can I have another favour?” you whispered. He nodded without question. “Walk me home? I’m just 'round the corner.”

Bidding your solar system Happy Saint Patrick’s Day and Goodnight, you followed Van out of the tavern. You’d overheard him telling his family he’d be back shortly. He’d not been presumptuous and you loved him for that.

The air outside was literally below zero. Both you and Van hesitated as soon as the cold hit you. Maybe walking wasn’t a good idea. Maybe it was a sure way to die. Though, you’d walked it before on colder nights with less alcohol coursing through your veins, warming you as well as the love was.

“Just 'round the corner?” Van asked. You nodded at him. “Want a piggyback? What 'bout your boots?”

“Think we both know that was a ploy,” you replied as you stepped onto the pavement and began to walk.

Van skipped a step to walk by your side. He thought about lighting a cigarette, but he didn’t want to expose his hands to the air. His nose was already freezing off his face. You thought about talking, asking more questions, but the moment your lips parted your tongue hurt from the icy wind. So, the trip was quiet, brief, marked only by the one event of your side brushing against Van’s with enough force that he looked over and automatically reached into the pocket of your winter coat and held his hand around yours.

Just inside the front door of your place, you swapped numbers with Van.

Sleep was only permitted when he messaged from the tavern, saying he was back by the fire and the whisky.

Or, the first time you held hands with Van while he walked you home in an almost-blizzard.

…

Two days after meeting Van, you were sitting in the window seat of a café in Dublin. Holding your hands out in front of you showed how much nervous energy was in your body. Your fingers twitched like they had during the year you were on lithium. Consciously, you were not nervous. You had not been overcome with burning hot emotion for Van. It wasn’t lovesickness and it wasn’t a crush. If there was a more poetic or impactful way of saying 'I like him,’ that’s what you would have said. He made you feel warm, comfortable, and good. There was an ease of existence about him, and it rubbed off on you, even in those short hours at the tavern.

Deep inside your body though, something wasn’t convinced. When you glanced over at the glass cabinet of cakes and pastries, your stomach flipped. There were those shaking hands, and of course, the dry mouth. It wasn’t the first or last time your body would betray you though.

Van came through the café doors so casually that you would think he owned the place, or at least came for daily coffee. His face lit up when he saw you. Van smiled like you did. It was the smile of people that grew up hating their teeth, so when they grinned, they did their best to hide them. He couldn’t help it though. He was too happy to see you. Open arms, you fell into him and let him hold you tight.

“Hey, love,” he said, then kissed the top of your head. You sat as he took off his coat.

“You like different in the light of day.” The words were falling from your mouth before you could stop them, or at least make them sound nice. Van sat comfortably in the chair and just looked over at you with interest.

“Different better or different worse?” he asked casually, picking up a menu from the table and flipping through the pages without even looking at them.

“If you told me now you’re in a band, I probably wouldn’t 'ave believed ya. Look significantly… softer. Cleaner,”

“Don’t everyone look dirty on Saint Patrick’s?” he said with a shrug.

“That’s racist… against the Irish,” you replied.

“Can’t be racist against white people. Met a girl that told me that once. She was dead smart, so I’m deffo inclined to believe 'er. And 'sides, I am Irish. You saw my family. And look at my freckles.” Van leaned forward, pushed his hair out of his face and pointed to his forehead.

You laughed and nodded. “Okay, okay,” you said, reaching out to ruffle his hair back into place.

“But, seriously. You’ve unsettled us now,”

“Really? My opinion means that much? You’ve just met me,” you said, taking the menu from his hands and pretending to read it yourself.

Van watched you as you skim read. As your eyes moved over the words too fast to take anything in, he thought about what you’d said. Yes. Yes, your opinion did mean that much to him. Weird. Very weird. Van had never much cared about what anyone thought. Not even the girls he’d liked. Growing up he’d always been praised for being himself, he never really questioned his identity or the way he came across to people. But, you…

“Do you know what you want?” you asked, pulling Van from thought. When you put the menu down, super keen for a honeycomb hot chocolate and French toast, you glanced at Van. He was staring at you, eyes glazed. His head tilted just a little, not enough to remind you of a puppy, but enough for it to be noticeable. Raising your eyebrows at him, you were about to prompt him into speech, when he started to nod. “Yeah?” you questioned, not convinced he had heard you at all.

“Tea,” Van said.

“Tea? You’re getting some leaf water? You’re gonna put ya hard earned money into a cup of tea?”

“Oh, babe! Love! Four-Leaf-Clover! Darlin’! This might be a dealbreaker,” Van replied, suddenly snapping out of his alternative reality daydream where the answer to your question, 'Do you know what you want?’ was a confidently enunciated, 'You.’

Van jumped from his seat, scooped up the menu and headed off to the counter. He got about two steps before he spun on his heels and grinned. “Ah. What can I getcha, Clover?” he asked through his teeth.

Or, the first official date you went on with Van and the first time he called you Four-Leaf-Clover.

…

The first date was simple, sweet. Short. Van’s phone had rung. Someone left the front gate open at his great uncle’s house, or something. The love of his life, a small fluffball named Little Mary, was free and missing. He apologised to you profusely before leaving half a pot of tea behind. The café remained your home for the rest of the day until you couldn’t justify spending any more money on hazelnut and chili hot chocolates.

That night you were in your pyjamas, almost ready for bed. It was still technically daytime, but with the dreary weather the sky was dark and the temperature was dropping. From the kitchen where you were staring into the fridge, you heard your phone vibrating across the lounge room coffee table.

'I o u a proper date’ Van wrote. The 'sentence’ was followed by the four-leaf-clover emoji. You let yourself imagine Van sitting there, flicking through emojis. A second message from him read, 'maybe just a proper meal? U home?’

'I am home, why?’

'luck of the irish. Open ya door’

No. Nooooooooooooooo. No. No.

Literally yelping and running to the bathroom, you assessed your reflection. In the morning your hair had that just-enough-grease volume to it. Now, it was just stringy. The cold air walking home had made your nose bright red and sniffily. And the beanie you’d pulled over the top half of your head had trapped the oil in, promising to produce a couple of pimples on your forehead any minute now. 

Your phone buzzed again. ’????? Freezin out here’

Padding quickly through your apartment, your footsteps were muted by the green bed socks keeping your toes warm. There was no point in kicking them off. You were in thick tracksuit pants and an old hoodie with unidentifiable stains on it. Fuuuuuuuck.

As soon as Van was through the door, he was stomping his soaked boots out on the mat that you luckily had no emotional connection to. Less than a second and he was making himself at home; you loved it.

“Lemme help,” you said, taking the paper brown bag from his arms.

Instead of walking to the kitchen, leading the way, saying anything else, doing anything else, you stood awkwardly just watching Van strip of his heavy coat, denim jacket, and boots. You watched him look at his feet and wriggle his toes.

“Uh… Whatcha’ doin’?” you asked him.

Van looked over at you. He’d scrunched his nose up. “Wet socks. It is pissing down out there!” he said in a weird whisper-yell.

After you collected bed socks for Van, you sat side by side on the couch and ate burgers and fries. The quality of the food was subpar, which Van explained was the result of so many places closing due to the horrible weather. As bits of trees and loose debris flew past the window, it was very easy to believe.

“So, I love this look,” Van said with a smirk after the food was eaten. You frowned and pulled the fluffy blanket up to your chin. “Aw, nah, Clover. I’m not takin’ the piss. Dead cute. All comfy,”

“Wasn’t exactly expectin’ a house call,”

“But ya glad I’m here, right?” he asked sarcastically, rolling his head to face you, smiling like a kid, dimples and all.

“Maybe,”

“Maybe?” he copied, but it sounded more like 'maii-beh!?!?!’

“Yeah. I mean… the nosh was fair good but the entertainment is mediocre,”

“Woah, woah, woah! Fightin’ words, is it?!”

And before you could respond, Van had pounced, throwing fluffy blankets and throw pillow aside to kneel over you, pulling your limbs up onto the couch and to become a tangled mess of humans in a tickle-fight. Despite knowing that your laughing, squealing, begging and bartering would only serve to encourage Van, you just couldn’t stop it.

“Please! Stop! I’m! Van! Dying! Stop!” you yelled.

His hands were under your hoodie and flat on your ribcage, skin on skin, warmth on warmth. When he stopped tickling, there was a strange silence in its place. You’d both tuned the sound of the television out. The storm raging outside was just white noise. Van’s face was close to yours, close enough that when you shuffled a bit to reposition yourself, your face brushed against his. The mood grew tense. You could feel it. Van could too.

Van pressed his forehead against yours gently and closed his eyes. A smile formed on his lips before they parted, and he whispered, “I'm… gonna kiss you now… if that’s alright with you?”

Or, the first time Van’s lips touched yours.

…

Missing Van was expected. He was new and shiny and beautiful and of course you’d miss him when he headed back to the UK. Just how much you missed him was a bit of a shock. After burgers and first kisses, it was two weeks of seeing each other almost every day. Van joked; he said stupid things about you being respite from his chaotic family and their hangovers and biffs and quips about the tightness of his jeans. You both knew better.

Both you and Van felt it. Being around each other was like putting the final piece of puzzle down. Yeah, the game was fun. Yeah, there was excitement in finding the right pieces. Seeing how already solved parts fitted together with newly solved parts. But, God… When the puzzle was done… When you could see the bigger picture, all the colours and shapes for what they truly were, the relief was brilliant perfection. Van himself was definitely not perfection, and you weren’t naïve enough to think the relationship could be either, but it was satisfying. It felt like the prize at the end of a long game. It was the dating circuit’s endgame.

Van leaving, knowing he wasn’t close-by, left a puzzle piece shaped hole in your heart. So, you did what any pining girlfriend of boy in band would do. You stalked the absolute fuck out of him online.

While he was with you, Van didn’t place priority on making himself seem special and famous by playing his music to you. Well, he’d played impromptu ballads on your out of tune acoustic guitar a few times, but he didn’t host a listening party for his own released records. In fact, he seemed adamant that you not go out of your way to listen to Catfish and the Bottlemen.

“Been hard, meeting people and making proper connections. Never know if they’re lovin’ you or the… the rock star you, you know what I mean? Not saying that I’m all famous, but… been hard,” Van had once told you. He followed up with a few horror stories. Thinking he’d met a genuine person, only to find them coping contacts from his phone. That kind of stuff. The longer you were separate to Catfish, the longer you felt safe.

Still, curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back. You spent hours and hours watching music videos and live sets, falling more and more in love with Van. It was so easy to see what love looked like on his face. When he stood centre stage, trying to see every single face in the audience, read every single expression, his own was just straight up, pure, unadulterated love.

It had only been two weeks, but it was more than enough to know you were in love with Van. You knew you regretted not telling him that before he left. You knew it would be the first thing out of your mouth as soon as you were back in his arms.

Or, the first time you listened to Catfish and the Bottlemen and gained a new favourite band.

…

“Van, I love you,” you blurted out as soon as he picked up the call. It was less four properly enunciated words and more one blurry sound.

He made a sound in response; it was a small, snorting kind of sound. Surprised. Happy. You breathed out as he breathed in.

“Well, 'ello there, Clover. Miss me that much?”

His tone was casual, like you’d told him a joke. It stabbed you straight through the heart. He’d not sighed in awe, then repeated the magic words. You never wanted to say it over the phone. It wasn’t romantic or memorable or anything special at all. Add the lack of desired response on top of that and you had one big heartache.

When you hesitated, Van went quiet. You could hear that he moved into a different space, the background of the call went quiet like him.

“Y/N? You okay? What’s wrong?”

“What?” you croaked out.

“What? You just… Are you okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah… Yeah. Sorry. Yeah. I’m fine-”

“You sure? I don’t got a show to tomorrow night, so I can come see ya real quick if you need me?” he interrupted. You could hear the worry in his voice and you wanted to tell him that you always would need him. Van started to talk when you hesitated again. “Cloves, if you’re okay… I’ll need to call you back. We’re walking into an interview in a sec,”

“Sorry. I’m okay, really. Sorry for being a bit of a muppet,” you replied, voice trailing off.

Van paused for a second. Then, “I love you, Y/N. Goin’ mad here. Weird. We ain’t known each other for very long… Feel like a fuckin’ kid again.” He waited for you to say something, but you were frozen. “I, uh… I’ll call you, right? Soon as I got a second, I’ll call you and we can talk proper. Okay?”

You nodded, then managed a small, “Ah-huh,” sound.

“Alright. Love you, Clover. Talk soon,” Van said. He said it again. He said it so casually, like it had been the truth the entire time. From the moment he met you. From the moment he was born.

“Yep. 'Kay. Love you too.”

Well. That was that.

Or, the first time you and Van exchanged 'I love you.’

…

It only took two more phone conversations for Van to get the story out of you. Embarrassed, you explained how you blurted out 'I love you’ and stayed freaked out for the rest of the call. He laughed and said, “Could’ve sworn we already said it? Must’ve been in a dream.” It was very like Van to defuse a high-tension situation with accidental comedy and easy love.

After that, talking overtly about the status of the relationship became more commonplace. You’d always been the type of girl to really wanna do the things you were told not to. So, as soon as talking about you and Van was okay, the desire to was lessened. For you. Not for Van. Van, the ever-romantic sweet-eyed puppy dog.

Two weeks after Van left Ireland, four weeks together, you couldn’t listen to his whiney lovesick voice messages anymore. You loved them, but it was beginning to feel like you were responsible for the psychological torture of Van. How dare you be so, so far away from him. Unfair! Rude! The hours on YouTube though, watching his hips swing on stage and his hands run through his hair, was literal physical torture for you. Flights were cheap and surprises were easy to organise.

Catfish and the Bottlemen were playing large venues by that point in their career. Stadiums, even. You weren’t entirely sure how you’d not heard of them before. When you first listened to Cocoon, you thought maybe it was familiar. At any rate, it wasn’t like you could simply buy a ticket to a bar gig and yell an audible surprise from the back of the crowd. No. You had to enlist the help of Van’s best friend and probable platonic life partner, Larry Lau.

Before he left Ireland, Van let you copy numbers into your phone. “Just in case of emergencies, type of thing,” you explained. His mother and father, Larry and two other close friends. It was just a smart thing to do.

Larry was more than happy to be of assistance. “God, he’s been the absolute worse. I love the guy, but… he’s unbearable when he’s all lovesick,” he said.

A few days later you were having coffee in a London café with Larry, who skipped an interview to meet you. He usually went wherever Van did.

“What did you tell him?” you asked, genuinely interested in how he managed to avoid suspicion.

Larry just shrugged and slurped at his chocolate milkshake. “He’s been so mopey that he didn’t even ask.”

With a key to their hotel suite, you spent the afternoon getting ready while Larry went back to the venue for soundcheck. The hours were easy to kill. Face mask. Shower. Shaving. Plucking. Makeup. The works. Your uber dropped you a block from the show, and Larry was waiting on the corner to sneak you in and place you at the sound desk in the middle of the crowd. From there, you watched the opening act and the start of Catfish’s set.

Watching Van online was one thing. One very, very provocative thing. But, fuck, Van on stage was a whole new level of emotion and sensation. The love poured off him with such enthusiasm and authenticity that it made you want to cry. In fact, your eyes did well up and you had to hold back tears. He was beautiful. They were all amazing.

At the end of the first two songs, the lights came on so the guys could see the crowd. It was also the few seconds where Van and co. could see the sound desk to indicate any adjustments that needed to be made. Ready for it, you were standing on one of the roadie cases. Van spotted you immediately. His face fell from a grin that resembled the happiest emoji to a gentle type of shock. He paused, lost in the surprise of you. You didn’t want him to stop looking at you like you were God’s gift to humankind. His expression was priceless and validating. The crowd and Van’s band, however, did want him to cease being frozen in space and time.

Benji’s bassline started. He’d glanced around and looked offstage at Larry, who really must have kept the secret well. They communicated, Benji started to play. Bob counted the song in, three, two, one, and Van was forced into action.

The rest of the set was all for you.

Or, the first time you saw Catfish and the Bottlemen live.

…

There had been too much sunshine the day before. You’d been fooled by the morning cloud cover and skipped sunscreen. When you woke up, your nose was pink and your lips were cracked. That was bad enough, but by midday you felt the tell-tale tingle of a cold sore. Spending the entire day covered in aloe vera gel and downing lysine supplements like they were candy, you hoped that when Friday arrived, you’d be back to your usual self. Van hadn’t seen you look less than perfect. A little sleep deprived, maybe. Makeup fading, okay. But sunburnt and blistered… you weren’t prepared for that.

You had always feared the concept of being human in front of someone you liked. You held in burps and constantly checked compact mirrors to make sure there wasn’t oil building up on your forehead or anything stuck in your teeth. Logically, you knew someone wouldn’t love you less for being a human being with a human body, yet the fear remained. Suspecting it was a common thing, you spoke to your friends about it. Yep. Pretty much universal, alright, yet nobody had advice on how to combat it.

Friday rolled around and you were landing at Heathrow. Van was to pick you up. It was the start of a whole week together, alone, for the first time since you started dating three months prior. The redness on your nose was gone, but dry, peeling skin couldn’t be covered with makeup. The best you could do was moisturise your face and add a little BB cream to your cheeks. The cold sore was bad. It hurt. It made you self-conscious.

“Cloves, you’ve seen me proper sick. And that time I split me lip and bled all over you. Don’t think I’m gonna be deterred by a little cold sore,” Van said over the phone. Stomach turning at the thought of when you and Larry had to clean up puke when Van caught a bug in Scotland. “And you still give us a snog when I come off stage, and I’m fuckin’ rancid with sweat, so… Don’t worry ya little 'ead 'bout it.”

Like nothing was wrong (because in reality there wasn’t), Van wrapped his arms around your waist and spun you around for an airport audience. When your feet were firmly on the ground, he kissed your forehead, nose (your internal monologue making dry-retching sounds at the thought of any dry skin leaving your nose and attaching to his lips), then moved to kiss your mouth. You ducked quickly.

“Woah! No! Contagious! Gross!” you yelped.

“Nah. Only contagious if you’ve got the herpes virus. I wikipedia'ed it. I ain’t ever had a cold sore so I’m safe. It’s like I’ve already had chicken pox, you know what I mean?”

“Aye, while you’re bang on about that, still don’t think snogging is the best course of action. Also, bit mortified but, that you’d say I have herpes?” you replied, slinging your bag over your shoulder and heading towards an exit. Van followed at your heels, laughing and reaching out for your hand.

“Love ya, Four-Leaf-Clover,” he whispered as he pushed up behind you, taking your bag for you and kissing your cheek.

Or, the first time you had a cold sore around Van and he kept on loving you, thereby proving your fears wrong.

…

They were in the fruit and veg section, easily recognisable from all the photos Van had shown you. Due to the lack of social media, you had just assumed he wasn’t really a photo person, that he wouldn’t be into recording every moment of his life. Wrong. His house was relatively undecorated aside from an extensive record collection and all the photos of his friends and family. Featured very heavy in that collection were Mary and Bernie, his parents.

You hid behind the pumpkins and spied as Mary pushed a shopping cart and Bernie selected produce. She looked bored, whereas Bernie was very interested in whatever the fruit boy was telling him about citrus. You were about to duck into aisle one, get what you needed, and bail before they could spot you, but it was too late. Mary looked up and somehow made direct eye contact with you. She doesn’t know what I look like, you thought. But alas, photos. If you’d seen countless photos of them, it was likely they’d seen photos of you.

Mary’s bored expression instantly lit up with a friendly grin. You could see Van in it. She waved and beckoned you with a hand. You had to stop yourself from looking around to check if it was actually you she was waving at and saying, ‘Who? Me?’

You were to meet them the following night anyway. Staying with Van in an Airbnb, you were in his hometown for all that formal 'meet the parents’ stuff. At least this way the dinner would be slightly less stressful.

“Y/N, right? What are the odds?” Mary said as you approached. “Bernard. Stop askin’ 'bout the oranges and look who it is. Y/N. Ryan’s Y/N. What are the odds?!”

Mary held her arms open and you shouldn’t have been surprised that Van was raised by huggers.

“Hi,” you greeted weirdly.

“Bloody Ryan. He said yous were getting in tomorrow,” she said.

“Leave it be, love. Probably wanted to show her around. Settle in,” Bernie defended.

Your cheeks had flushed red. Van had failed to tell you that he’d lied to Mary.

“Always been pure mischief that one. What about you, darlin’, how you like it here? Lot in common with Dublin, I guess,” Mary said.

To say you were overwhelmed would be an understatement. “Ah, yeah. People are a bit different, but it doesn’t feel too far from home,”

“Like home, hey? Van seemed very taken with Dublin after he met you. Maybe he’ll make there home too,” Bernie offered with raised eyebrows you didn’t know how to interpret.

“Oh… Think he’s gonna be a nomad for a wee while yet,” you reply, growing more and more freaked out by the second. They were clearly under the impression that you were Van’s one true love, the one he’d build his life around.

“A peripatetic life. Never could sit still,” Bernie agreed and you could see where Van got his love of strange words from.

Mary and Bernie held you up in conversation for three more minutes until your phone rang. Van demanded you put one of them on as soon as you told him who you were with.

Or, the first time you met Van’s parents and of course it wasn’t like you’d planned.

…

Six months after meeting Van in a Dublin hotel, you were back at the same hotel, drinking cheap beer alone.

“Where’s ya lad, love?” the bartender asked. He was used to you and Van visiting, drinking, dancing, singing, kissing.

You shrugged and continued to fold up a napkin in a poor attempt at origami. The bartender gave you a bag of Maltesers on the house then left you to brood.

Van had made a promise. It was simple. He’d be in Dublin if you really needed him. If there was an emergency, if you were homesick for him, if whatever, if you really, really needed him. Van had made that promise and at the time you said, “Yeah, right, right,” because you didn’t actually expect him to be able to drop everything and come to you when you called. He was the frontman for an ever-touring, successful band. And, you weren’t a demanding and unrealistic type of girl. But, you needed him.

You called him at 11:07 on a Thursday night. He didn’t pick up and he didn’t call back until Saturday morning.

“Sorry, Cloves,” Van began. He didn’t lie; he just explained that he was doing a show when you called. He was tired and a bit spacey the next day, so left it until he was more coherent to call back.

“You… said…” you started to reply, but weren’t sure exactly what you were upset about. “Um. Okay… That’s okay. So, um, what’s the craic? How’s Larry?”

“Y/N, you okay? What was your call about?”

You didn’t want to tell him. You didn’t want to be consoled by him. You were angry.

“Van, I’ve gotta go. Up to ninety today, you know what I mean? I’ll talk to you-”

“No. Clover. Wait. You’re-”

“Van, I gotta go.” And you hung up on him.

All Saturday you dodged his calls. Saturday night he left a voicemail and he was drunk and worried and defensive. You could hear the guys in the background partying; they had a couple of days off before the next show.

“Y/N… Look… I don’t fuckin’ know what happened, right, but I know I ain’t done anythin’ wrong, so I don’t know why you’re all pissy at me… So, just pick up your phone and talk to me like an adult, yeah? 'Cause I miss ya voice an’ ya accent, Clover. Four-Leaf-Clover… Don’t fuckin’ ruin this. I'll… I’ll call again later. Pick up ya fuckin’ phone. Love ya.”

You threw your phone across the room, grabbed your bag, and headed out to the hotel. After beer and free Maltesers, you stumbled back home and crawled into bed. When you couldn’t hear your phone vibrate on the wooden floorboards or see the screen lighting up the room, you figured it had gone flat. You didn’t care enough to put it on charge before you passed out with the taste of beer on your tongue and the stinging of tears in your eyes.

Sunday morning, after fresh coffee and a hot shower, you charged your phone. Waiting for it to come to life, you sat nervously on your bed staring at it. When it turned on, to both your surprise and horror, there were no new missed calls, voicemails, or messages from Van. Instantly, you started to cry. You weren’t even sure if you were angry at yourself or him. It wasn’t easy to figure out who was to blame. The reason you needed him in the first place no longer seemed important. Everything was just fucked.

All morning you stayed in bed, nursing your sorry heart. Somebody knocked on your door around 11 in the morning, but you ignored it. It was probably just your neighbour coming to ask you to cry more quietly. An hour later the knocking started again, but louder and more persistent. Wearing mismatched socks, plaid patterned pyjama pants, a crop top and one of Van’s hoodies that you’d requested to keep, you opened the door slowly, ready to comply or cry. Maybe fight.

He was balancing a tray of takeaway cups in one hand, a paper bag under one arm, and a bagel in the other hand. He was eating into it already, too impatient or too hungry to wait until he got to yours. You could tell he hadn’t showered or slept in a day. His hair was oily, messy, kind of wonderful. The backpack he was wearing reminded you of school kids. You imagined he was the loveable class clown. On his face, he wore a hybrid expression of trepidation and love.

“Van,” you breathed out without thought.

“Hey, Clover. Let us in? Brought you lots of stuff.”

There was absolutely no denying that what you wanted was to let him in, hug him tight, and eat his goddamn baked goods. What you wanted and what you believed you had to do were two different things.

“Are you having a fucking laugh?!”

His expression quickly changed to confusion and the defensiveness you heard in his voicemail was now visible on his face. “What?”

“Van, you promised you’d be around if I needed ya! You said, you know? Then you don’t answer and don’t call back till whenever you feel up to it? Jesus. It’s not even just breakin’ the promise, it's… it's… shatterin’ it just for the fun!”

“I’m here. Don’t that mean anything? And how was I meant to know you called 'cause somethin’ was wrong? You hardly tell me anything when we’re not together. You said you were good with me being… being away and stuff, being in a band. But you’re not. You’re just like all the others-”

“Fuck you, Van! I’m not like 'all the others’ and you fuckin’ know it. All I asked was that you’d be here if I needed ya, and you weren’t!” you yelled, then slammed the door in his face. You took two shaky steps backwards, like the force of the door closing had rattled you too. Breathing audible and heart pounding so hard you swore you could feel it hurt, you waited for something.

Van was quiet, but you could see his shadow under the door. He’d not stormed off and you knew he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t leave you. Stepping back close to the door you put your hands flat on it and rested your head on it too.

“Y/N?” Van asked, quietly, calmly. He tried but he couldn’t mask the hurt in his voice. “Just let me in… It won’t mean you’re wrong, okay? Just let me in.”

It took you another minute to follow the instruction. When the door opened, you stepped away from it, like something bad was about to be let into the house. Van closed it behind him and glanced at you as he walked to the lounge. You watched him lay out a buffet of Danishes, croissants, and other pastries. There was a coffee and a hot chocolate for you. Whatever you wanted. Van kicked off his boots and continued to eat the bagel in his hand. Slowly, cautiously, you sat down next to him. Your mind hadn’t even given you the option of sitting anywhere else. With your side pressed against his, you already started to feel better. You picked up the hot chocolate and sat back into the couch.

“You said you’d be here if I needed you, and you weren’t,” you said.

Van nodded. “Yeah. I… I get that. I didn’t know something was wrong. I don’t know why I figured it weren’t. Just assumed it was a normal phone call, I guess. I’m sorry. I fucked up. Should’ve called back sooner,” he replied. You nodded and it was obviously an acceptance of his apology. “As soon as I thought something was wrong I came. Just took me a bit.” He put his bagel down and took your hot chocolate away too. “Y/N, I know I promised before and ruined it, but I really do promise to try me best to do whatever you need me to do. I fuckin’ love you, yeah? You know that, right?”

You were already nodding. “Yeah. It's… Yeah, I know. I love you too.”

Or, the first time you and Van had a fight and you spent a night in tears because of him.

…

Van had a weird habit of opening your mail when he was at yours. He said he used to open mail for his parents at the bed and breakfast they ran to screen for junk. And maybe school reports. He was lounging around when he started to pick through the pile of paper on the coffee table.

“Clover! Lease is up!” he yelled to you.

As you wandered into the living room, you snorted at the image. He was in your fluffy bed socks, jeans, and no shirt. There was no way you could possibly guess the temperature of the environment.

“Offerin’ it again?” you asked him, lifting his legs to sit under them.

“Ah, yeah, but you’re gonna be a bit miffed 'bout this part,” he answered, pointing to the paper.

The landlords were jacking the rent up. It was more than you could afford, especially when you considered how much you travelled now that Van was A Thing. It had been almost a year of dating, but you still spoke about it like it was new, potentially fleeting. Van, however, talked about the relationship like it always had been and always would be.

“Move back in with Ma?” you asked him.

“You could. You’d hate it but,”

“Look… You’re not wrong… What am I gonna do?”

“Rub my feet while you’re there?” Van answered, tapping your legs with his socked feet. “And just move in with me? It’s not like I’m there all the time. Save money. Use it to come see me more.”

His toes wriggled in your hands and you knew he wasn’t kidding.

Moving out of Dublin, out of Ireland was weird. Van’s house was a blank canvas, save for those photos and records. He gave you free reign to decorate, and with the money you weren’t using on rent, you could afford beautiful, warm things. Plush rugs and fancy frames. Fresh paint and clean lines.

Van wanted you to make his house your home, but he gave very little feedback about your interior design work. He spent more time telling you not to rush into finding a job; his income could easily support you both. Catfish were growing more successful each day. It wasn’t stopping him from making time for you though. It didn’t blind him to the nuances of your behaviour.

“What’s the room next to the studio for?” he asked one night as he put a bowl of spaghetti in front of you.

Shrugging, you picked up the bowl and filled your mouth before you had to talk.

The room next to the studio was painted a clean off-white that looked baby lilac in the right light.

Or, the first time you and Van made a home together, and dreams of the future went unsaid.

…

There was no other word to describe your mood but 'grumpy.’ You weren’t angry. You weren’t sad. There wasn’t anything tangibly wrong. You were just super grumpy, stomping around the house around midday, after a long sleep-ins after restless sleep after late nights of binge eating. Van was away and you missed him, but only the normal amount. You couldn’t put your finger on why everything was annoying you and everything was just so blegh.

Van called one Monday. The phone buzzed along the bathroom vanity as you were a second away from getting into the shower. You’d just walked Mary and felt gross after patting every single doggo in the dog park. Considering letting it go to voicemail, you picked up the phone and saw it was Van.

“Yeah?” you answered.

Van laughed, but the sound fizzled out into an, “Awwww. That ain’t the exact greetin’ I was hoping for, you know?”

“Sorry. Howya… Sorry, A chroí,”

“You right though?” he asked.

“Yeah, just… flah'ed out…”

“Need a kip, aye, love?” Van said loudly in a mocking Irish accent.

“What do ya want again?”

“Jesus, Cloves. Got a bee in yourr bonnet,” he said, his tone changed to one of softness. Immediately, it softened you.

“Yes,” through a pout, and, “Don’t know what’s wrong,”

“Been hot there. You don’t do too good in the hot,” Van suggested.

Thinking for a second, you nodded to yourself. He was right; it had been hot and being overheated always made you agitated. “How do ya know it’s been hot?” you asked him.

“I check the news and weather there every day. Gotta know what’s happenin’.”

Van was sweet, but he was also a complete fuck. He continued to poke fun at you, antagonise the situation. It was in one of his jokes that you made a connection that you wish you hadn’t. Inevitably, you would have come to the conclusion anyway, but another month of ignorance really might have been bliss.

“Cloves?” Van said again when you had gone silent. “Sorry. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean-”

“No, you’re okay… It’s just… I’m late…” you interrupted.

Van said nothing. You said nothing. Somehow you knew it wouldn’t be a false alarm. Van knew you knew.

While Van got onto a plane and crossed the ocean, you peed on seven pregnancy test sticks. Every single one of them confirmed that the baby lilac room would soon have a tenant. When Van got home, you were sitting in the doorway of the room, the room that would belong to your daughter. Somehow you knew that too. Van quietly came and sat by your side and took your hand. He kissed the back of it and held it tight.

“I like the name Keira,” he said.

“That’s an Irish name,” you replied.

“Yeah. I know.”

Or, the first time you and Van couldn’t imagine exactly how the future would be but you’d never been more excited for it.

…

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I fucking hate you!”

Van tired again to hold your hand. His palm had shallow cuts made by your fingernails. He hadn’t noticed. Even if he had, it would have been incredibly unwise to say anything about it. You swatted his hand away violently.

“You’re doin’ so good, Cloves,” he said, wiping the sweat from your face.

“Fuck you, Ryan!” you yelled, your accent thicker than ever. “Do ya hav’ a bloody medical degree? No! So how’s you think you know how I’m doin’?!”

“He’s quite right, Y/N. You’re doing perfect. Ready to start the real work now?” the OB-GYN said.

“THE BLOODY WHAT?!”

Or, the first (of multiple) times you brought a new McCann into the world but you’d rather not think about all that body fluid again.

…

The hospital room was packed. It was the first time the McCanns and your family had met. Extreme circumstances, but such a joyous one that it couldn’t ever go wrong. And, Keira came out with a head of dark, thick hair. Van fist-pumped the air. He’d named her perfectly and he said it meant he was going to be a wonderful father. You already knew that anyway. The hospital room was packed and was full of love, but God, you were relieved to get home to the quiet.

For the first few days it was just you, Van, and Keira. She slept better than you’d expected but she didn’t eat as much as she was meant to. It stressed you out and you spent all your time reading webpages and forums about newborns, and hiding from Van while you called a different doctor for a different opinion. He’d find you and drag you back to the lounge room, reassuring you that Keira was fine and everything else would be too.

On day four, Catfish arrived with a stupid amount of gifts and arms itching to hold Keira. You greeted them at the door then lead them to where Van was cuddling with his baby on the couch. Everyone took casual seats around, not fussed with immediately taking hold of her. After a while, Larry came and kneeled at their feet and studied Keira’s face.

“She’s got a cute little nose, don’t she?” he said, looking over at you.

“Gonna be like Van’s. She’s got his blue eyes too,” you replied. She was still asleep so the boys had not been blessed with her sparkling eyes. Not only had she inherited the colour, but she had Van’s long eyelashes too. Neither you or Van were quite sure where her dark hair came from.

“Can I have a hold, mate?” Larry asked Van. Van looked at you.

“Why you looking at me?”

Van looked back down at Keira, then at Larry. It was more than hesitation. It was apprehension. It was unwillingness. Before he had to say or do anything, Benji spoke up.

“Nah, I should hold her first because I knew Van first,” he argued.

“But I’m his best mate,” Larry countered. His head twitched in a slight shake.

“Well!” Bondy said too loudly.

Keira woke and looked up at Van. He looked down at her and they started one of their little stare-offs. Neither would blink in fear that the other would suddenly disappear. Van wasn’t listening to the guys and the start of their competition. He was in the world of Keira.

“I think we all know who Van likes the best, and it’s clearly me. Why else would he take me to all the interviews?” Bondy finished his argument.

“Uh, 'cause we won’t go?” Benji answered the meant-to-be-rhetorical question.

“Ah, wrong, Benjorno. Loves me. He loves me,”

“Do you not even remember that he’s got a shirt with me name on it?” Larry asked incredulously. “And that I’m the first word on the record?”

“Oi, Van, tell 'em how much you love me,” Bondy said. Everyone turned to Van.

Van did not look up from Keira. For a moment or two everyone basked in their love, small then big grins on their faces. You watched the room and wanted to take the calm and bottle it for later. Bath in it. Sleep in it.

Larry tapped Van’s leg from where he sitting on the floor.

“Yeah?” Van said, still not focused.

“Can we have a hold, mate?”

“Ah… Yeah… Yeah… Need to make Cloves some tea…” he answered, his voice trailing off while he still watched his baby wriggle about in his arms. Just before the guys arrived he’d promised you tea, but he’d got all caught up in Keira. Slowly, Van stood. Everyone watched him. Then, he dragged his eyes off her and to you. He grinned sunshine and you grinned back. He winked once, then turned to Bob, who had been quiet in his seat next to you. Van carefully handed Keira to him, before leaving the room to make a couple of pots of tea.

“Does this mean he loves me most or trusts me most?” Bob asked you.

Or, the first time the lads meet baby Keira and Van no longer loves Larry the most.

…

Of all the fears Van had about being a father, one of his greatest was that he would miss important milestones while out on the road. In true Van McCann style, he got lucky and didn’t miss a thing. You had to step up the banter about how blessed he was and how perfect his life was.

“Don’t know why you’re pokin’ fun, you are the perfect life? You know what I mean? Like, if it’s so funny to you, stop being here, you know?” he’d say, shaking his head and trying to take Keira from you.

But there was a snowball’s chance in Hell that you were going anywhere, unlike baby Keira, who took her first steps when she was only in her eighth month of existence. You were sitting on the kitchen bench next to Van, who was at the stovetop making pancakes. Mary trotted into the room. Keira stood up from where she was playing with an empty bowl and wooden spoon.

“Van. Van! Look!”

He spun and you both watched as she wobbled on the spot and took one… two… three-no, two steps. She fell back on butt and looked a little startled. She looked up at you both.

“Hey, baby!” you said to her. Van waved his spatula. “Tryna’ walk?”

From that point on, she was taking one, two, almost three steps everywhere. When she fell, she’d go for the crawl, then get back up when she felt ready. Most kids start to walk when they’re fourteen or fifteen months, but by the time Keira was reaching her first birthday, she was zipping all around the house. She had fallen in love with the yelping sound Van would make when she went missing from wherever he left her. She’d waddle as fast as her chubby little legs would take her, her brown fluffy hair moving about, and hide behind anything bigger than her. At only one, she was already razor sharp. Smart and fast, she was ahead of the curve in every way except speech. She was still not forming full words, but your doctor was unconcerned.

“Thought I was an alright entertainer 'till I meet 'er,” Van said on an exhale and as he collapsed on the couch next to you. A second later, Keira came walking after him and stood between his legs, waiting for him to do something else.

“She should be in bed,” you replied, providing little sympathy. Van had built his no bedtime-bed, and now he’d have to lie in it.

“Seriously, Y/N. I’m gonna have to find more stuff for her to do. I read that it’s bad if kids get bored. Gotta keep 'em stimulated so their brains grow,” he explained, sitting up to ruffle Keira’s hair and tap her head. She stomped in response and grabbed his hand when he moved it away. She, like you, liked to have her hair played with. You’d spend hours lying on your bed with Van in the middle, one hand combing through your hair, his other ruffling hers. Keira would make soft, happy cooing sounds. The best soundtrack to the best days.

Two days after Van’s worried revelation, he packed her 90s Carebears backpack and took you both to an indoor playground. You took turns carrying Keira through equipment, however she made like/dislike decisions impetuously, with the smallest of events precipitating strong reactions.

“How’d she get this picky? We ain’t like this?” Van said. He was watching you alternate between feeding Keira and drinking your coffee. Frowning and looking around, he was momentarily in his own world. You watched him, his eyes scanning for something to impress his daughter, to make her happy. Van had always been easy to love, but like this, so alert and desperate to make you and Keira sated, you loved him more. You loved the darkness under his eyes that would probably never quite leave. The way he cut back cigarettes to twice a day, aiming for one in the coming year. The sounds he produced to make Keira laugh. All of it. All of him.

The moment Van saw the ball pit, his entire body sprang to life. He sat up straight, his hands landed on the table dramatically and his expression was the human equivalent of a glowing lightbulb.

“Hand her over. She’s full,” he said, standing up.

“Alright, but ya really should wait a wee minute, yeah?” Yeah, no; Van was carrying her off without heeding your warning. “If she pukes on ya, I ain’t gonna help clean up!” you called after him, grabbing the bag and following.

The ball pit was small and was not occupied by any other children. Van carefully lowered Keira into it. At first, she just stood looking up and him. When you arrived by his side, she looked at you. Nobody did anything. Slowly, she began to look around. She realised the balls were each an individual item but when she moved, they all moved too. Testing the new sensation, she sat down, throwing herself back on purpose. Disappearing under the balls, you instinctively went to pull her out like it was deadly water. 

“Wait,” Van whispered, taking your hand. That’s when you could hear her giggles. She bounced up making her cackling sound that typically meant, 'Surprise!’ or 'Ta-da!’ And that was that.

Keira would have played in the ball pit for the rest of her life if you’d let her. Van kicked his shoes off and climbed in with her. She sat in his lap and showed him how she wanted to play. The game was to pick a ball up, put it on her head, and let it roll off. She thought it was absolutely hilarious. With each ball that touched her soft hair, more static energy built up. It didn’t take long until she was a giggling mess of hair standing on ends. Van laughed as it tickled her face when she wriggled around.

You sat beside the ball pit, taking videos and photos of their game. Keira watched you for a while before picking up a yellow ball and holding it out to you.

“Ma,” she tired. Both you and Van went still and silent. “Mum. Ball,” Keira said.

Van wasn’t even jealous that she said Mum before Dad, he was just so happy she’s said anything. You cried and got into the ball pit and bundled her up in hugs and giggles.

When everyone was settled and sleepiness was setting in, you stood up. “Alright, you shower of savages. Home.”

Or, the many first of Keira McCann including steps, words, and loves.

…

World War 3 almost broke out because of your wedding plans. A good, Irish girl getting married outside of a church. Your mother wouldn’t talk to you about it for a whole month. She essentially pretended that Van didn’t exist, as she saw him as the cause of all this madness. Eventually, she had to come around if she was going to be involved in Keira’s life. Van’s family were less traditional, or maybe just more used to their kid breaking social norms.

The hotel you met at on Saint Patrick’s Day years ago became the scene of the nuptials. It was decked out in fairy lights and not much else. You both wanted the bar to remain as it were. In front of the inner circle only, a select group of friends and family, you stood by Van in a white lace dress that hadn’t cost too much. Keira had lead you down the aisle in a matching dress. At the altar, you picked her up and let her play with the flowers woven into your hair. She stayed quiet, entertained enough by the novelty of the situation.

The vows were short and funny more than tear-jerking. You’d tell each other everything you felt and thought later, like you did every day. Van, ever the entertainer, used the limelight to try to impress everyone. He was upstaged by his daughter though.

“If anyone in attendance knows of any reasons why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace,” was uttered, and immediately followed by a little squeal from Keira.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” she said and all eyes were on her. “Ma-ma?”

“Baby Clover, what you doing?” Van whispered to her. She looked at him then back at you.

“Ma-ma. Uhhhhh… ya… nana?” she asked. The room melted into gooey 'awwws.’

“Banana? Yep. Soon, love.”

You could see she was suspicious, so she turned to Van and reached out for him. “Ah, Da-da. Please nana now?”

“Yeah, alright,” he said to her. Everyone just watched as Van walked back down the aisle and over to where Keira’s pram and bag was. He got out a small banana, helped her peel it, then walked back to you, dropping her off with Larry on the way. Both Mary and your mother looked put out by that decision. In front of you, Van grinned and nodded. “Right. Where we were?”

Or, the first time you and Van exchanged 'I do’ and vowed to love and honour forever and ever.


End file.
